


Hunting Monsters, Monsters Hunting

by escritoireazul



Category: Confident - Demi Lovato (Music Video), Jurassic Park Original Trilogy (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dinosaur Hunters, F/F, Fisting, Genetic Engineering, Masturbation, Vaginal Fingering, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 02:43:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13090725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escritoireazul/pseuds/escritoireazul
Summary: What better to hunt genetically modified monsters than genetically modified monsters.





	Hunting Monsters, Monsters Hunting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



Here’s the thing: John Hammond is a giant fucking dick.

\---

Here’s another thing: Scientists created creatures for an amusement park on Hammond’s dime, at Hammond’s whim, and Hammond can tell a pretty story about mosquitoes caught in amber and recreating DNA and bringing back animals extinct before their time, but those scientists dressed in their white lab coats and their thin gloves and their superiority created not one single dinosaur.

What they created were monsters. Fast and fierce and free.

Hammond told the world about Isla Nublar, and the park he would open to everyone, not just the rich and the fabulous, the golden players who run the world. When the first test run with guests went so terribly wrong, Hammond took his billions and turned it into a nature preserve instead. As technology rolled forward, he sent people in on brief trips to upgrade the systems. Most of them lived. A few died, but their names were mostly kept from the news, even with its bloodthirsty cycles.

Now, anyone can livestream the island twenty-four seven, if they're willing to pay the right price. Totally free ten minute samples. Up to twelve hours a day with advertisements. Hammond’s own grandchildren run the media empire now, one the people person who wears khaki pants and an old, worn safari hat, who shakes hands and smiles and charms people just like his grandfather did, one who disappears into her technology for weeks and months at a time.

Isla Nublar: online sensation. Dinosaurs: everyone’s favorite thing. Jurassic Park: not so much a park, but an unmitigated success.

Jurassic Park dinosaurs on Isla Nublar: not fucking dinosaurs at all.

\---

Demi crouches, black hair falling over her eyes as she stares at the ground. It hasn’t rained in days, maybe more than a week, or so the helicopter pilot told them, and though there are some marks in the dirt, the impressions aren’t clear enough to let them know what passed there last, or how long ago it went.

Nothing big, at least. There’s no hiding a t-rex print. (And they’d know, if something like that had made it to this island. Surely, they’d know.)

“Well?” Michelle asks.

Demi looks up at her, shakes her hair out of her face. She wears it in a choppy chin-length bob, not quite long enough to easily pull back, and it’s always in her way. It’d be more practical if she either cut it or grew it out, but Michelle’s glad Demi doesn’t always do what’s practical. The cut makes her jaw look sharp, her throat long, and brings out her wide, dark eyes.

She shrugs. “Nothing human,” she says. “Anything else, I don’t know.”

Michelle sighs and looks around. The trees are thick here, the leaves dark green. There are vines around them, and vibrant flowers, and it would be beautiful if she wasn’t hunting. It’s beautiful anyway, but she doesn’t have time to appreciate it.

“Do you think he’s smart enough to stay on the perimeter?” Demi asks and stands. Wipes her hands on her combat pants, smearing dirt.

“Nope.”

Demi laughs, quiet, restrained. There’s a pinch at her mouth that means she’s holding back a louder response. Even here, Michelle is tempted by it, tempted by the line of her throat, broken only by the thin metal band around it. Tempted by the curve of her breasts under her tactical gear. Tempted by her and everything about her.

Michelle fingers the band around her own neck. They’re brushed metal and subtle, but she will never, not for a minute, forget about it or the brand on her arm. They're why she’s here with Demi. They're why she's with Demi at all.

“Poor little rich boy,” Demi says, and Michelle nods. That’s the truth, really. He’s why they’re on the island, hired by far too rich parents who are just terrified about their precious boy (boy even though he’s a white man in his thirties) who went out on the yacht with his buddies, decided to explore forbidden places, and got himself lost.

Probably, he didn’t know about the dinosaurs. But there’s no guarantee.

Everyone knows that Isla Nublar has dinosaurs. (“Dinosaurs.” Michelle is no scientist, but she’s grown to hate the way people throw that word around.) A surprisingly small number know that Isla Sorna has dinosaurs, too. Hammond’s dirty little secret, where all his scientists ran their experiments.

(Demi sometimes defends him, says she doesn’t think he knew everything that happened on Isla Sorna. Demi met him once, when she was very young, and has talked to his grandchildren several times. She would know better than Michelle, but Michelle refuses to cut him a break. He did this, and they’re dealing with the violent, bloody results.)

And then there are the rumors about the other islands. Michelle hasn’t been able to trace any of them back to InGen, but there are stories about strange lizards on the rest of the Muertes Archipelago, and people have disappeared.

That’s why they’re on Isla Matanceros, and that’s why they step lightly. Maybe this dumb rich guy got drunk and went exploring and they’ll find him safe but for some scratches and bruises and a massive hangover. He’ll hit on them, and Michelle will try not to punch him, and Demi will tease her into a better mood, and they’ll both ignore the man until they hand him over to his parents.

(Then they’ll fuck themselves into exhaustion in an expensive hotel room before they fly back to the States and wait for their next job.)

And maybe Hammond’s dinosaurs aren’t genetically modified monstrous freaks.

\---

Their pilot circles the island. She’s a long-time Hammond employee, smart and brave, and though Michelle hates Hammond for what he’s done, she trusts Sally. The report comes back that there’s no sign of the missing man around the outside of the island, which is not unexpected, but still makes Michelle curse.

“Oh come on,” Demi says as she adjusts how her backpack sits against her shoulders. “You’ve been fidgety for weeks. You’re ready for an adventure.”

“I like fights,” Michelle deadpans. “Not adventures.” Then, because she can’t let it ride, “I’m not fidgety.”

Demi grins. “Yeah you are. That’s okay, though. I like fidgety.”

Michelle rolls her eyes. “You are an idiot,” she says. “To think I fucked you.”

“Fuck,” Demi says. “Present tense. You fuck me, and I fuck you, and there’s a whole lotta fucking going on.”

“If you break out into song, I will feed you to the first dinosaur we find.”

“And if we don’t find any?”

“Then I will make one, and raise it, and turn it into a maneater, and then, when it is grown, I will feed you to it.” Michelle shows her teeth, but all Demi does is laugh.

Their ease is a far cry from their first meeting. A test, for both of them. A test by a rich man whose power had gone to his head. Secret arrests. False accusations of treason. Branding and being set on each other to fight for dominance.

That rich man had made a mistake pitting Michelle and Demi against each other. They’d beat him, and exposed him, and saved countless others he would have made like them. But it was too late for them. Marked and trained, beaten and bruised, modified monsters, all they knew was the hunt and the fight and the kill.

That’s when Hammond’s grandkids came into the picture. They had their precious media darling island, and they had their secret experimental island, and they had rumors of dinosaurs elsewhere. They needed a team to go in, rescue people, capture the dinosaurs, kill them if necessary. (The dinosaurs, mostly, though Michelle’s been tempted to take out a person or two.)

Michelle and Demi work together, always. They might get tossed into a bigger hunting party, but no matter where they go, it is the two of them.

(They are the last of the branded girls. They are genetically modified. What better to hunt monsters than monsters?)

“We’re off to find the rich,” Demi sing-songs, and Michelle storms into the trees.

\---

It’s strangely quiet, the birds still, the only noise the soft sound of their breathing, the rustle as they pass through the undergrowth. They both know how to walk soft. The silence is a bad sign, though on an uninhabited island, the mere presence of humans might scare the native animals. It could just be the poor little rich man who has silenced them with his stomping and noise. It could just be Michelle and Demi, quiet but carrying the smells of metal and gunpowder and steel.

What it is, though, is a dinosaur.

Or, to be more precise, a dilophosaurus genetically modified to be smaller, faster, and, of course, poisonous, than its historical counterpart. Because that’s exactly what a carnivorous dinosaur needs, the ability to spit poison into its prey, blinding them and rendering them incapable of fighting back.

They hunt in packs, at least these modified small ones do, which makes them even more dangerous. Not as bad as the raptors, and a part of Michelle prays she’ll never hunt a pack (and a part of Michelle can’t wait until she does), but bad enough.

Demi notices the marks first and holds up her fist. They stop so she can take a longer look at them, and when she straightens from her crouch, her expression is tight.

“Masks and goggles,” she says, and Michelle doesn’t question her, not out here. While they strap on their safety equipment, Demi tells her what she’s seen. There’s maybe three or four in this pack, and they’re moving fast, and they’re hunting something stumbling through the trees.

Three guesses what that is.

“How’d they get here?” Demi wonders. “Do they even swim?”

Michelle shrugs. It doesn’t much matter to her how any of the dinosaurs get anywhere or how they survive the alleged lysine deficiency that was supposed to be one of Hammond’s failsafes. Maybe they swim. Maybe someone tried to smuggle them off the islands (there’s a decent price on even the smallest dinosaur if you can get it out alive, and a huge payday on the big ones) and it went terribly wrong. Maybe Hammond or InGen or both were secretly experimenting here, too.

None of that matters. What matters is the hunt.

\--

They work their way toward the center of the island, because even though it would be smarter to stay near the ocean, people tend to run when they get scared, and they’ll run to where it looks like they can hide. There’s very little thinking to it, even less logic, just reaction.

The birds and bugs stay silent, any small animals hidden. (Depending on how long the pack has been there, it’s possible there aren’t any small animals left to hide.) Michelle holds her breath sometimes so she can listen, try to hear past the throb of her pulse in her ears. She’s on edge, vision sharp, sparks beneath her skin. She scents the air, follows a pattern of looking from one side to the other, and then above and below.

They don’t find the dinosaurs first. They find the poor little rich man. He’s up a tree, shaking and bleeding, and as Michelle tips back her head to stare up at him, she wonders how he managed to climb with his leg that mangled. Wonders how they’re going to get him down and off the island, too.

“Well shit,” Demi says, also staring.

“Well shit,” Michelle agrees.

“Thank god,” he says. Brett or Corden, something like that. “I didn’t think anyone would come.”

Michelle raises her eyebrows. Too often, the spoiled little rich people, kids or adults, are demanding even when they’re being rescued, but he looks honestly relieved.

“Brandon,” Demi says, her voice low and calm, “we’re going to get you out of here, but you have to listen to everything we say, all right?”

Brandon. That’s it. This is why Demi deals with the people. Michelle turns, puts her back to them, stands guard.

It takes far too long, and makes far too much noise, to get him out of the tree and get his leg bandaged. He can’t move fast, but at least Demi doesn’t have to carry him. It sucks when Michelle’s the only one with a gun.

The dinosaurs don’t attack until they’re nearly to the treeline, which is both good -- they don’t have far to run to get to clear ground -- and bad -- because they aren’t on clear ground yet, it’s hard to fight tangled in the underbrush, and Brandon can’t run anyway.

The pack circles them, darting in and out. The leader raises up, spreads its frill. Demi and Michelle react immediately, Demi pulling Brandon down, protecting his head with her own body, Michelle bracing herself and bringing up her gun.

The dilophosaurus spits. Michelle fires. The bullet strikes home.

So does the poison. Most of it splatters, harmless, against her mask and goggles, but there must be a tiny, nearly invisible, crack in the frame of the goggles, because she can feel it drip through, hit the corner of her eyes. Can feel herself react, vision in that eye blurring, fire tearing through her. Can feel the moment her body starts to fight back, genetic modification versus genetic modification.

This is going to fucking hurt. They need to get the hell off this island.

Then, beautiful, she hears the heavy throb of the helicopter. Sally’s come for them, like always. This is why they won’t fly with anyone but her. Michelle fires again, though it’s hard to aim. The leader’s down, at least, the other three scattered, slower to attack. They’ll regroup fast enough, the next strongest will take over, and the attack will be swift, but with the slightest bit of luck, and a whole hell of a lot of skill, Michelle and Demi won’t be there to see it. (Brandon either, but if it comes down to it, she'll cut him free first to make sure they survive.)

“Run,” she shouts, and already the corner of her mouth has gone numb and slack. She’s losing feeling in the entire left side of her face, and the right side burns. She feels sick. She feels tired. She feels like peeling off her skin before it bursts.

Demi drags Brandon along, and Michelle stumbles after, firing behind them at random, trying to keep their backs clear. They break out of the trees, and it’s easier going. There’s bare ground. There’s the cliff. There’s the helicopter hovering. There’s a rope, and Demi goes up fast, pulling Brandon after.

A dilophosaurus leaps at her. Michelle fires. Misses, but draws its attention to her. Grabs the rope, twists it tight around one arm, and swings out over the sea, and the next spit of poison splats against her boots.

Then she’s being hauled up, too, and she’s slumped on the helicopter's floor, and Demi is peeling off her goggles and mask, pouring something cool over her face.

They’re not safe, not until they’ve landed far away, but they’re safer. Michelle lets herself go.

\---

Demi helps Michelle out of her clothes. There’s a cool cloth bound over her eyes, coated with a salve that is helping them heal. She stinks of sweat and dinosaur blood and jungle rot. She leans against the marble counter in the swanky bathroom, listens to Demi shove their clothes into plastic bags to be dealt with later.

The water runs. There’s the scent of vanilla. A match strikes, and then she hears the hiss of a candle being lighted.

“Kind of pointless, don’t you think?” Michelle gestures to her face.

Demi sniffs. “Like I lit it for you.” But Michelle can hear the amusement running through Demi’s words.

Once Michelle is settled in the tub, Demi pushes her hands away. It’s a huge tub, and there are jacuzzi jets turned low, soothing her battered body. Demi washes her clean, her touch gentle. The water is warm and slick with something sweet, and Demi’s fingers linger at her breasts, her belly, the hard, muscled line of her thighs.

“Thank you,” Demi says. That’s it, but Michelle can fill in the blanks. _Thank you for taking the hit_. _Thank you for fighting with me_. _Thank you for letting me take care of you. Thank you for being alive_.

Michelle nods, slumps lower in the tub. Luxuriates in it. They are good at the hunt because they are stronger, faster, and heal quick. Their senses are greater. That means that they experience the soft things more, too. Touch and smell and taste --

Demi’s hand slides up the inside of Michelle’s thigh, distracting her. Michelle shifts her weight, lifts her hips, but Demi takes her time, teasing the crease that runs up her hip. Circles her belly button. Drags her hand back down, slower than ever.

“Damn it,” Michelle starts to say, and then Demi puts her hand right where they both want it. Her fingers are thin and elegant, but strong. She pushes three inside without hesitation, and for a second, the stretch makes Michelle gasp, but her body adjusts fasts.

She’s already wet enough she can feel it despite the slick water. Wet enough Demi’s fingers slide easily now. Wet enough that when she adds a fourth, there’s no pain at all, just a great pleasure.

“God,” Michelle says, rolling her head back.

“Damn right I am,” Demi says. She lowers her mouth to Michelle’s tits, takes one nipple between her teeth. Bites down even as her thumb presses hard against Michelle’s clit. The first orgasm overtakes Michelle, small and fast, there and gone too quickly, but still Demi pushes her.

This is what they do. They hunt, and they fight, and they fuck, and they bring all they have to each.

“Give me more.” Michelle only just manages to get the words out.

“Yeah,” Demi says. Kisses up to her throat, bites there. Closes her teeth around Michelle’s earlobe. Kisses her slack mouth. “I’ve got you.”

Michelle’s breath gasps as Demi’s hand moves. Her thumb leaves Michelle’s clit. Brushes the lips of her cunt. Then, with a slow, inexorable pressure, Demi’s fist presses inside.

It’s almost too much, in that first moment. Pain sparks. Demi’s fist is solid, widest at the knuckles which press hard against Michelle, and as wet as she is, as worked up as she is, as worked _open_ as she is, it’s still a lot for Michelle to take.

“I’ve got you,” Demi says again. Michelle matches their breathing. Forces herself to relax.

Still, Demi presses her fist inside, deeper, deeper, until she fills Michelle’s cunt, until her fist is buried up to her wrist, and a little farther still. Until Michelle can feel her inside, smell both their arousal. Until Michelle is surrounded and taken and full.

“Good girl,” Demi whispers and kisses her mouth again. “Good girl.” Her breast this time. “Good girl.” Her stomach, and the water sloshes, and then Demi’s other hand is at her clit, one finger on either side, rubbing the vee of them along the sides. “Good girl.”

Michelle whines and twists and tries to hold her hips still. Feels her muscles flutter around Demi’s fist, then clench.

“Good girl,” Demi says one more time, squeezes the sides of Michelle’s clit, presses her thumb down hard against it. “Now come.”

Michelle does, right on command, shouting and holding hard to the edge of the tub, body rigid, mouth open, eyes shut. She comes and she comes and she comes, and Demi pushes deeper into her, each stroke hard and slow.

Finally, Michelle’s done, slumped sated against the back of the tub. Demi removes her hand from Michelle’s cunt with a slow slide that hurts a little coming out just like it did going in.

“If you weren’t wounded, I’d fuck your face so hard right now,” Demi says, tone conversational. Her words send a spark of desire through Michelle, but she can’t quite get her body ready again. Not yet. “Get your hands inside me, your tongue on my clit.”

Demi stutters the last, and Michelle hears the wet sound of fingers across a soaked cunt.

“You’re touching yourself,” she says. “Do it slower.”

Demi grumbles, but complies. Michelle’s seen her do it a hundred times, a thousand, and doesn’t need her eyes to picture what’s happening, Demi’s head thrown back, her lower lip between her teeth, her breasts thrust forward, her nipples hard.

“Please,” she says, and Michelle feels smug and powerful. She doesn’t even have to touch Demi to make her beg.

“Nope. Stay slow.”

“Please,” Demi says again, but she doesn’t speed up. “Please, oh please, oh please.”

“No, and no, and no.”

Demi whines and begs, the pace brutally slow. Her free hand scrabbles along the edge of the tub. Michelle feels for it, grabs it, brings sticky fingers to her mouth and licks them clean.

“ _Please_ ,” Demi cries.

“No.” Michelle waits, breathes in, then adds, “But you can come.”

It’s a slow boil through Demi. Demi’s hand clenches around Michelle’s, holds so tight Michelle thinks she might break some of her fingers. Her body thrashes, knee knocking against the edge of the tub, heel pounding the floor.

She comes, flooding the room with the smell of her. Holds hard to Michelle.

Michelle breathes in deep, licks her lips, and tries to force her face to heal faster. She wants to taste Demi, wants to plunge fingers inside, work her mouth over the wetness coating Demi’s cunt, probably her thighs, too, as big as that sounded. Eat her, lick her, finger her until Demi falls apart on her hands and fingers, mouth and tongue. Half a dozen times, maybe, and they’d both be satisfied. A dozen. A thousand times and more.

“I hate you,” Demi says when she’s got her breath back.

“Good.” Michelle kisses her fingers. Pulls her in. Shoves her hand between Demi’s legs. Yeah. She’s soaked. “You’re a mess.”

“Fuck you.”

“Clearly.” Michelle pushes one finger inside, slow and teasing, and Demi cries out. They’ll be there awhile now. Michelle stays in the tub until long after the water goes cold.

\---

“I’m doubling the price on our replacement gear,” Demi tells her later that night. They’ve delivered Brandon to his parents, who dote over him as if they’ve brought back a small child, and are surprisingly polite to Demi. They even paid a bonus. A thank you for saving our son tip. Michelle laughs. It’s not funny.

“Lex will pay,” Michelle mumbles. She’s flat on her back on the bed, naked after Demi helped her through the bath, and though she’s healing, her face is still numb. She has a pillow over her eyes, but she only knows it because she put it there. She's sated from their sex, limp from all her orgasms. “She likes you.”

“She likes us,” Demi corrects. “And the work we do. The Hammonds are grateful.”

“Hammond is a shit,” Michelle says.

“They’re not their grandfather,” Demi says. “And he wasn’t so bad. He was a dreamer.”

And we’re living his nightmare. But Michelle doesn’t have the energy to fight.

“Good work,” Demi says, and the bed dips as she crawls up next to Michelle.

Michelle mumbles something unintelligible, holds out her arm so Demi can settle against her side. There’ll be another job soon enough, and she’ll be healed by morning. Genetically modified monsters.

There’s always more to find, and hunt, and kill.


End file.
